


Not Knowing How Blind

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Brock Rumlow, Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftercare, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve, Bottom Steve Rogers, Cock Slapping, Cock Warming, Degrading Language, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dom Brock Rumlow, Dom Tony, Dom Tony Stark, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Domestic Kink, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Gaslighting, Getting Together, Humiliation, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hydra (Marvel), Inexperienced Steve Rogers, Inexperienced Sub, M/M, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, No Aftercare, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Objectification, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painplay, Partner Abuse, Pining, Pining Steve Rogers, Praise Kink, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Sexist Language, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Sub Steve, Sub Steve Rogers, Subdrop, Subspace, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Brock Rumlow, Top Tony, Top Tony Stark, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Anal Sex, Unsafe BDSM, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, domestic abuse, internalized kinkshaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 06:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18585706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: Steve Rogers is still feeling lost in the modern world.  Inexperienced with kink, he begins a relationship with his friend from SHIELD's STRIKE team, Brock Rumlow, but the relationship soon takes a dark turn.  Meanwhile, Tony Stark watches as Steve's behavior becomes more erratic, worrying about him and wishing he knew what to do to help.





	Not Knowing How Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts out with some pretty graphic Steve/Rumlow that conveys an abusive and not fully consensual relationship, in the sense that Steve doesn't fully understand the nature of the relationship he's entering, and the fact that Rumlow is Hydra and Steve doesn't know. Rumlow is extremely physically violent with him, and also emotionally abusive. Steve/Rumlow will not be the main pairing in this story. Steve will get together with Tony Stark, and that will be the main focus of the fic. We just have to get there.
> 
> This first chapter will probably have the most graphic Steve/Rumlow content. If you have issues with reading gaslighting or abusive BDSM interactions, please avoid this chapter for your own peace of mind and/or safety. On the surface, their relationship may appear to be consensual BDSM, but I meant to write every interaction between them to include a lot of red flags. Rumlow does a lot of taunting of Steve because of his submissive and masochistic tendencies. He also gaslights Steve based on his knowledge of Steve's attraction to Tony Stark, playing on his own jealousy. Rumlow is abusive and gaslighting Steve, and Steve is not capable of full consent under the circumstances. Rumlow also fails to provide adequate aftercare for Steve and Steve enters a form of subdrop toward the end of the chapter. There is also no kink negotiation between Steve and Rumlow of any kind. Rumlow has no idea if Steve will like anything he does, he just does it because he doesn't care. This is not healthy BDSM. It is, however, somewhat sexualized, because at this point Steve is still getting something he enjoys from it and has yet to realize how unhealthy it is. Also, when Steve is in subdrop, he tends to think passively suicidal thoughts. Please be warned!  
>  
> 
> “The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was.”  
> ― Rumi, The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing

_Hey, Cap, where you headed, hot date?_   Tony’s words echoed in Steve’s head as he turned off his motorcycle, and he sat there, just for a second.

He’d never thought, exactly, he’d be the sort of person who had hot dates.  Not like Tony, who could have dated any woman—any _one_ , Steve thought, still a little painfully, men sometimes dated other fellas now, out in the open and everything—he wanted to, but who had a wonderful relationship with Ms. Potts, where they had date night together every Saturday, and half the time it seemed to be just staying in and having dinner together and . . . .  And it was wrong to be jealous of what they had, Steve told himself, firmly.  At least, of course everyone wanted that, a relationship like that, or he figured they did (he definitely did), but it was wrong to be jealous of it in the way—the way he was.

No, he wasn’t anything like Tony.

Hell, he hadn’t even had sex until the 21st century.  There probably weren’t many people who made it almost a hundred years with only their right hand for intimate company.

And now here he was.  Giving into his baser desires.  Seeking out one of his subordinates for sex.  Steve sighed, rubbed one hand through the sweaty hair at the back of his neck and shook his head at himself.

He still wasn’t even quite sure how it had started between him and Rumlow.  He’d gone out with the STRIKE team for drinks, one night, because, well, because he’d just been so . . . he hadn’t been able to face going back to his empty room and reading another history book, or just staring at the wall for a few hours before his mind finally slowed down enough that he could sleep, or he headed down to the workout room in his building to tire himself out.  He’d used to go out drinking with the Howlies, though it wasn’t like he could get drunk.  That wasn’t the point; it was about showing them he was one of them, he’d thought.  Well, he still thought that.  And then Rumlow had stayed later than the others, until it had been just him and Steve shooting pool, trading drinks.  Steve thought Rumlow might have been getting a little tipsy.  He should probably have gone back to his own place, but he’d been having a good time, and he’d felt comfortable, not out of place, for the first time in what felt like—well, since the last time he’d been in the field, if he was honest, and it had been so good, to feel at home when he wasn’t analyzing a mission or hitting someone with his shield, and Rumlow, with his attitude and his jokes and his dark eyes and friendly camaraderie, had reminded him a little of Bucky and a little of, of Tony.

He hadn’t realized exactly when Rumlow had started flirting with him, hadn’t realized Rumlow was flirting with him at all at first.  And then he hadn’t quite believed it wasn’t just his imagination, because—a fella?  Flirting with him?  Out in the open like that?  The way it had made his belly clench up with want and need and longing made it feel like—like it couldn’t possibly be real, he’d felt his face going hot, sweat, hot and nervous, slicking his hands and under his arms and the back of his neck just like it was doing now.  But Rumlow had been making it obvious, then, licking his bottom lip in such a . . . sexual way, rubbing his thumb against it, then against his pool cue, even parting his lips, sucking on the cue, and Steve—Steve had known he shouldn’t, had known Rumlow was probably drunk, but he’d still ended up with Rumlow shoving him into the wall outside the restroom, slick, messy kisses that made him go hot, made him push into them eagerly—because he hadn’t known that a kiss could be so hot and biting, so eager and intense, and Rumlow had gotten a hand up into his hair and _pulled_ , and he’d still been wearing his fingerless gloves, and it had hurt so perfectly, the way he palmed the back of Steve’s neck when he did it—brought him back down, deeper into the kiss—

So even though Steve had known it was the wrong thing to do, that he shouldn’t be sleeping with a subordinate, part of his team on STRIKE, and certainly not after he’d been drinking (his mouth still tasted of beer), he’d let Rumlow slide his hands down the back of Steve’s jeans, into his back pockets, and squeeze in lewd gropes, let him rock the hot hardness of their erections together through belts and trousers, let him bite bruising marks down the slope of his neck and mourn aloud that they were already healing, running his thumb over them, over Steve’s slick, gasping mouth.

“I thought you wanted more, golden boy,” Rumlow had half growled, half purred, into his mouth.  “Looking at me with those damn bedroom eyes of yours, with those ridiculous eyelashes, like you wanted me to just bend you over the pool table and go to town—” and oh, _oh_ , oh, that had made Steve hot all over, had gone straight to his already hot, throbbing dick, straining at the front of his jeans, “Gave me ideas, big guy, the way you stick your ass up in the air for me like you’re panting for it.  You wanna help me out, don’tcha?  You’re the one who got me all wound up like this,” he was tugging at Steve’s hair, biting at the side of his mouth while he talked, and Steve was groaning, hitching his hips forward against him, unable to stop, hot all over, every word making the inside of his head feel hotter, making him feel like he was melting, “the way you were batting those—those fuckin’ eyelashes, I know you want it, fucking asking me for it . . .”

And oh, God, how had he known?  It had been the only thing Steve could think, as Rumlow got his big hand through Steve’s belt loops and tugged and he spread his legs for him, let him push him further up against the wall as his other hand had squeezed at Steve’s neck, against his throat.  He’d never thought he was being obvious—had his eyelashes given him away?  How?  What had he done that had somehow shown—but he’d always wondered, what—what it would be like, and when he jacked himself sometimes he slid his fingers into himself and _yearned_ for someone else’s hand, someone else to show him what it would really feel like, and where else was he going to find that?  When else was he ever going to find out?  Sure, maybe it was—was more acceptable these days, for a man to want to take it in the rear, but it wasn’t like Captain America could just go out to a bar and try to make it with a fella even now. 

Even if he could have, he couldn’t have put some civilian in danger just to sate his curiosity.  And Steve hadn’t been able to think straight, not with Rumlow’s heat and energy and sturdy bulk there in his arms, pushing up against him, his dick hot against Steve’s through their trousers, and Steve found himself panting, gasping until his breath almost sobbed in his throat like he’d been running, both arms coming up to fist at the back of Rumlow’s shoulders, pulling him into Steve as he arched his back and pushed his hips up into him, the masculine smell of him and sweat and beer heady in his nose in the way he’d fantasized so much about during the war, about so many soldiers, big and sturdy and strong, pushing into him like this, body hot and hard against his, but he’d been Captain America and he couldn’t, and then Rumlow was running his hand down the muscles of Steve’s thigh through his jeans, sliding his hand around and pushing two fingers roughly down his crease, even through his jeans, against his hole, and Steve could barely feel it through the rough scratch of his jeans and the fabric of his underwear but he still almost came just at that, and he could hear the wild, almost mournful cry he let out against Rumlow’s mouth as he arched and his hips juddered helplessly.  He felt just as helpless, almost, out of control, pressing his wrists against Rumlow’s neck and gasping as his tongue swept across Steve’s mouth, pushed back into it like he was planting his flag there, biting at his lips until they felt wet and swollen and stinging. 

Steve had known he still shouldn’t—Rumlow was his subordinate, for God’s sake, and kissing him outside a bar bathroom didn’t change that, however it had felt—but Rumlow knew what he was doing, he clearly knew what he was doing, on the field and off of it, with a pool cue and with his mouth as well as a gun, and Steve so often felt like he didn’t have a clue, about any of it, and it felt like the first time he’d been able to forget all about that in—in a long time (the last time he’d been to Stark Tower, and Tony had smiled at him and taken his hand with both of his and patted the top of it and squeezed, but that hadn’t lasted, Tony had been off like a shot a second later, talking about a thousand different things Steve didn’t understand in a way that felt like it was subtly mocking him for how he couldn’t keep up, and they’d ended up snapping at each other all over again, however little Steve had wanted to—he’d been so determined to get along with Tony that time, to tell him he wanted to move into the Tower, to show him how much he wanted to be friends, but—well, he hadn’t done any of those things, and he’d ended up moving out to DC instead—and, well).  But when Rumlow—Brock—had grinned at him and invited Steve back to his place, he’d agreed.  Agreed and tried not to think too much about Tony, even as he rubbed self-consciously at his mouth, red and bitten and wet, stinging with the marks Brock had left on him, feeling like everyone could see, would know what he’d been doing.

He’d never done that before.  Never gone with a fella, though he’d imagined it plenty of times.  Never gone with a lady, either.  Or with anyone, really.  It had been—well, easier than he’d always pictured.  Sure, he’d gotten nervous on the way over, but he’d decided he’d already committed, had felt himself clench his fists and raise his jaw like he would have on the way to a fight—but then they’d gotten there, back to Brock’s place, and Brock had been—in charge, just like that.  Steve didn’t know any other way to think of it.  He’d shoved his knee in between both of Steve’s, between his thighs, and pushed him back up against the wall of his apartment and bit down on his ear, his scruffy stubble rubbing harshly along Steve’s neck and jaw as he mouthed and bit at the sensitive hinge of it, beneath his ear, and Steve just—he’d just—something in him had gone loose, liquid, melting.  He’d felt his spine go to mush, soft and pliable, his legs go weak.  He felt—so weak, so limpid, transparent, like Brock could see right through him, so helpless, so _perfect_.  He could kick through a stone wall with one foot, braced properly, but he felt weak and stumbling and clumsy as Brock slid his fingers through Steve’s belt loops and pulled him in against his chest, toward him, and toward his bed.

The first time he hadn’t even taken Steve’s clothes off, just unbuckled his belt, pulled it off and tossed it aside, then fisted his hand in Steve’s shirt, at the back of his neck and dragged his jeans and underwear down around his knees.  Steve heard him undo his own belt and shove down his pants, and then he was rubbing the blazing heat of his cock, wet and messy and smelling of sex musk, along the bare flesh between the curve of Steve’s rear cheeks, and Steve shivered all the way down to his toes, down into his core, and his mind just went—blank, blank with desire, with want, with how he felt used, degraded, messy, nothing like Captain America should be at all.  He could feel his mouth wet, drooling into the bedspread, his mouth hanging open, even as he panted for breath.

His face felt hot, so, so hot, and he thought, _Oh, wow, he’s going to take me, just like that_ , and then there were two fingers, slick and wet with something, pressing against him there, against his hole, just like Brock had done earlier through his jeans, and then they were pushing unceremoniously inside, and it was the first time anyone’s fingers other than his own had ever been inside Steve, and he felt himself gasp against the bed and it hitched in his chest, as a wave of heat went through him and he felt so very aware of his cock bobbing cold and wet in the air now that his pants were down around his knees.  He was sweating, and he couldn’t seem to get a breath in.  He clenched his hands in the blankets and dragged in an unsteady, heaving breath, and then Brock’s fingers, callused and rough, dragged along something inside him and it felt so good, _so_ good, Steve temporarily lost track of everything in a burst of blinding, white-hot pleasure, only realized he’d been jerked his hips, pushing himself back on those strong fingers, moments later.  Oh, God, he could feel the rough texture of Brock’s fingerless gloves, inside him, the added thickness they gave.  Oh, _Jesus_.  And they scraped him inside, rough and dragging and painful, but God, it was so, so good, too, they felt so _thick_ , and those were his gloves, oh, God.

“Aww, yeah, that’s it,” Brock said from behind him, and Steve could feel the slick sound of him palming himself for a moment before the weight of his cock came slapping down on his rear cheek again, leaving a damp, hot trail.  “Should’ve known you’d be a slut for it, huh, Cap?  Got it written all over you.”

 _He did?_ Steve wondered.  What had he done to give it away?  Give himself away?  How had Brock known he wanted this—like this.  He clenched his hands in the bedspread and dragged the cloth closer toward him despite himself, his muscles flexing.  He didn’t even realize how badly he was rucking it up until he buried his face in it and gasped, and Brock was still working his fingers against that spot, a quick in and out, in and out.  The texture of his gloves was rubbing Steve’s rim, the tight clenching muscles there, raw and hot and painful, and Steve felt his cock hardening, felt it twitching in midair, bobbing helpless and wet, and bit back a groan, hid it against his forearm.  Why was that so good, why did it make him so—so hot, make him need so damn much?

“God, you needy slut,” Brock said, and Steve went hot all over, felt his ears flaming, his breath coming unsteadily, but couldn’t help how he ground back on his fingers, “you absolute whore for it; who knew Captain America would be such a needy piece of ass, Jesus.”  And he slapped Steve’s rear end, once, hard, but not enough that it did more than sting, not with Steve being who he was, and pulled his slick fingers away, out of him.  Steve couldn’t keep back the mournful sound he made.

“Please,” he gasped, barely any sound behind it, barely a whisper.  “Please, that—that felt good.”

“Okay, this is how we’re gonna do this, Steve—you don’t mind if I call you Steve, right?” Rumlow said, and Steve shook his head against the bed, but Brock still wasn’t moving.

“Steve is fine,” he managed.  His voice shook.

“Okay, Steve,” Brock said, and Steve wondered if it was all right to call him Brock.  “I give, you take, all right?  I call the shots here, I make the calls, and you do the kneeling and the spreading and the sucking in.  You take it and you thank me for it, whatever I give you.  How’s that sound?”

And fuck him, if it didn’t sound good.  If it didn’t sound like exactly what he wanted right then.  Steve didn’t—hadn’t known what was wrong with him—he still didn’t.  He just knew that something had gone bright and hot all over inside him, had rushed down to his cock and made it jerk, leaking wet and hot up against his pelvis, just at the thought of being _taken_ , of being _commanded_ , of being whatever somebody else wanted, for their use, just for them, not for himself, and it was wonderful, and he pressed his forehead into the back of his hand and ground out, “ _Yes_ ,” scratchy and wavering and a low, harsh groan right out of his lungs, out of the very depths of his chest.

Brock had fisted his hand in his hair and dragged his head back and Steve had gone even hotter, even brighter all over, had gasped aloud, even as he said, “Can I hear that again, Cap?  You red-faced slut.”

And Steve had cried out, “Yes, yes, please, Brock, please, just—please.  Yes.  That’s what I want.”

“Begging,” Brock had said.  “Just what I like to hear.”  And he had let Steve’s hair go, just to reach down, skimming his fingers along his face, letting his fingertips play over Steve’s lips, press into his wet mouth, between his bitten lips until he was drooling, panting around them, then dropped his hand to his neck and squeezed it, hard, hard enough that Steve found himself flexing the muscles in his neck against his hand despite himself, gasping for breath, before he pulled it away.  “All right, big guy,” he said.  “You’re not Cap anymore with me, do you understand?  You’re mine.  You’re my big needy cocksucker, all right?”

“Yes,” Steve gasped, still couldn’t catch his breath, and then something came into his head, something he couldn’t shake loose, and he bit his bottom lip and said, “Yes, sir.”

He could _feel_ the way that made Brock suck in his breath, made him stiffen.  His hand jerked quickly behind him, Steve could feel it, and he realized Brock was working his cock.  “God, yes,” he groaned.  “Fuck, yes.  Yes.  That’s perfect.  You call me sir.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said, fervently, feeling—light, light and relaxed and almost like air, like a burden had just melted away from his shoulders, just then, and then Brock’s fingers were inside him again, back on that same spot, rubbing and working and thrusting, and Steve was riding them and gasping as pleasure built and built and built inside him, and then he’d come, face pressed into the blankets and without a single touch to his cock, fists clenched and face wet as he gasped for air.  Up until then, it had been the single best orgasm of his life.

And then Brock had laughed, had called him easy for it, eager, an easy slut just waiting to be mounted, and he’d spread Steve’s hole out on his fingers and drizzled, poured lube over it until Steve was shivering, then he hadn’t felt cold at all, as Brock’s thick, heavy, hot cock was pushing into him.  He jerked at Steve’s shirt, bound it up in his hand, and laughed as he said, “Sure hope you don’t mind a little barebacking, little filly, ‘cause I sure ain’t finding a condom now,” and smacked Steve’s rear so it stung, and his cock was so hot and heavy it left Steve gasping.  It had to be as thick around as a soda can, and Steve felt like he was so—so full, of heat, the stretch—oh, the stretch, it was so _much_ , and he pressed his fists to his forehead and gasped, and then Rumlow was sliding deeper into him, and it felt so good, felt like he’d been empty and waiting for just this and never realized, a big cock deep inside him, and then Rumlow had started to thrust, had pulled at Steve’s hair, had dragged at his shirt, and it had felt so, so good, so good that Steve had gone away in his head again, something going soft inside him, inside his core, so that it barely seemed to matter that he was getting hard again, that his cock was thickening up between his legs, against his pelvis.

Brock had come inside him the first time, and pulled out, and Steve had realized that there was his come dribbling out of him, wet and dripping, down his thigh, before he’d flushed and clenched his hole shut, feeling how wet and loose it felt inside.  It had trickled down past his briefs, down to his knee, and he could feel it tamping down the hair there, against his jeans.  When Brock had slapped his rump and called him _one hell of a sweet ride_ , a little more had escaped.  He’d praised Steve for not touching himself, and it had felt so good, so—so sweet, like he was made out of warmth, like he had stepped into the heady, hazy air of a sauna, warmth and cotton candy all through him, sweet and soft.

Anyway, that had been the first time.  Brock had had him three more times that night, and let Steve rub off against the bed while he fucked him one more time, though he’d made Steve beg for it, again and again, and he’d let Steve kiss him, again, after, twine his fingers in his hair and taste sex and musk and desire on his tongue, had let him use his shower (Steve had slid two fingers inside himself, marveling at how easy it was to relax the muscles now, even though they were raw and sore and red and flinching at the abuse they’d taken, felt his wetness inside from Brock’s come and flushed, face hot under the hotter spray even as he turned into it and closed his eyes, floating high and dazed and dizzy on the beautiful hot self-consciousness of it all, even as he worked his fingers inside, cleaned himself out as best he could), had even fed him breakfast.

And then he’d slapped Steve’s rear the next day as they were suiting up, about to head out on a mission, snapped the strap of his uniform, of his shield, and Steve had flushed bright red and said, “Rumlow, not before a mission, cut it out,” and he’d just winked at him and he’d said, he’d said, “Well, what about tonight, big guy?”

And Steve had gone there that night despite himself.  And he’d been going there ever since.  It had been almost two months, and he couldn’t seem to bring himself to—to stop, because every time, Brock would—would take him apart, would twist his arm up behind his back and get him on the floor and fuck him raw, or smack him with a gloved hand until Steve was panting and red-faced, on his knees, or having him suck his cock until he was choking, gagging—he said Steve wasn’t any good at that, but he was getting better, wasn’t he?  He hoped so, but he still gagged every time; he couldn’t seem to help himself—or he’d have Steve just keep his cock in his mouth for hours as he choked on it until he was sore and numb and gagging quietly, with tears of effort in his eyes—tears of effort! From him!—and Steve didn’t know what it was about it, but he felt so much better afterwards, like for a while the gray haze that seemed to cover everything some days had lifted, like he could take in a deep breath, like he could straighten easily and smile at anyone and really mean it.

And then sometimes it was like afterwards the crushing despair would get even worse, like the grey cloud would turn into a black cloud of crushing agony, and he’d wonder why he’d even bothered to open his eyes that morning, he’d wish the serum had let him die when he’d been meant to, he’d wondered what was so wrong with him that he needed this, that he craved it, that he let his subordinate slap him around and got off to it, that he needed someone to tell him when he was allowed to come to the point he didn’t even jerk himself off at home in his apartment anymore—it felt too wrong, too unfulfilling, without Brock there to tell him whether he was allowed to come or not and spank him red and raw and bruised if he came when he shouldn’t so it hurt to sit down, and he flinched when he settled into his chair at the briefing table, without someone to tell him he’d done it right after.  It was pathetic, but there it was.  He’d used to jerk off every night before bed—now, more often than not, he went to bed hard and aching, unless Brock had given him the word that he’d be welcome at his place.

But even then, when the black despair lifted a little, and he felt more like himself, he felt better.  Lighter.  And—maybe like he’d be able to figure things out in this new time after all.

And here he was again.  For his _hot date_.  Steve wondered what Tony would make of what he’d been getting up to in his free time.  If he’d be disgusted.  If he’d heard of this kind of thing before.  Sometimes it seemed to him like Tony had heard of _everything_.

That didn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t be disgusted, though.  That just meant he’d have already made up his mind on it.

Steve kicked his bike into park and sighed, slipping the keys into his pocket.  He was already hard, unbearably, desperately hard, and he was painfully aware of it as he jogged up the stairs to Brock’s apartment, aware of the sweat of anticipation beading on his hairline, down his spine.  He never used the elevator—it was embarrassing to think that he might expose someone to the state of him, if they noticed his needy erection, and someone might actually need it, and it was more exercise, and, well, he usually felt like he needed the physical exertion to get the anxious sparking bugs out from under his skin, and besides that, he didn’t really know that he wanted anyone to see him there.  He didn’t really know if Brock wanted that either.

He really didn’t know what Brock wanted at all, really.  Steve sighed at the thought, felt his head dipping down.  Sometimes Brock was soft and sweet, would let Steve sit in front of him on the floor after, as they watched TV, and pet his hair, dragging his hand slowly and a little roughly through the soft strands.  He’d spoon up behind Steve in bed, curl his arms around him, keep him warm through the night.  Call him “sweetie.”

But the rest of the time, he was rough, tough, treated Steve like he was a—a commodity, a toy to be used, and Steve, he _liked_ that.  He got off on it.  He just didn’t know what—what that made them to each other.  Not at all.

He knocked on the door, because it was only polite, then let himself in with the key Brock had given him, closing it carefully behind him.  “Brock?” he called out.  “I’m here.”

“Jesus, took your sweet time, huh, sweetcheeks?” Brock said.  He was grinning as he appeared from around the corner, took a swallow of the beer bottle he was letting dangle loosely from one hand as he braced it on the corner.

“I had things to do,” Steve said, and swallowed.  His mouth already felt dry with anticipation, and he knew he was red in the face, flushed, already, with the awareness of how his erection was tenting his slacks.

“Like what?” Brock drawled.  “Making eyes at Stark?”

It was like a punch to the solar plexus.  It almost hurt, just as bad.  Steve felt himself go cold, then hot, felt his face flame even hotter, hot as blazes, hot enough to heat a cup of water, it felt like probably.  “I—no,” he said lamely.

“Oh, pull the other one, Cappy,” Brock said.  “I’ve seen the way you fucking pine after him.  Like a goddamn puppy.  Your face, I swear to God.  You’re the most obvious slut on the damn planet.  Might as well write an engraved invitation on your ass.  ‘Iron Man’s dick welcome here.’  Not that I blame you; the man’s a gorgeous piece of ass himself.  I’d tap that, if I had a chance.  Can you imagine how he’d sound with a cock in him?  Or choking on it.  Jesus.”

Tony _was_ beautiful, Steve thought, painfully.  He was so beautiful.  He was the most beautiful person Steve had ever seen.  Of course Brock would take Tony over him.  Anyone would.  Steve would never have had a chance with him.  Even if Tony hadn’t already had a gal.  He knew that.  “You shouldn’t talk about him like that,” he said, swallowing.  “He’s not—”

Brock arched his eyebrows at him.  “He’s not what?” he sneered.  “A cock hungry whore like you?  That’s the truth.  I don’t think anyone could want cock as bad as you do.  I didn’t even have to pay you for it, did I?  You just got down on your knees and bent right over like the best little cockslut in the world.  No way Stark would be a cock-hungry slut like you who needs his ass beat black and blue to spurt off.”

Steve felt his face on fire.  He was probably red down to his rear, from the way the flush felt, the way it prickled down his spine, his tailbone, down his chest over his nipples.  “He’s with someone,” he said, instead of everything else he could have said, and had to swallow hard, again.  His cock was throbbing, and it was hard to get a breath.

“Sorry, sweetcheeks, but I thought you were with someone, too,” Brock said, and Steve flushed, because he still didn’t know what was between the two of them, Brock and him.  Brock stepped forward, ran a finger along the inside of Steve’s collar, and he took a shuddering breath.  He was about to ask if Brock would say they were together; it was right on the tip of his tongue, he could taste it on his breath.

And then Brock backhanded him across the face.  It hurt, of course it hurt, a hot bright sting across his face, and Steve thought it might have split his lip, it felt so hot.  Brock grabbed his chin, forced his head up again, rubbing his thumb in against the sting until Steve could feel it bruising.  “I don’t want you thinking about Stark,” he ground, and it was gritty, like gravel over a wound.  “I want you thinking about me.”

Then they were on the same page.  Steve came here to forget about Tony, his dark eyes and clever mouth and beautiful rear end and his laugh and the gentle smile that always came at the most surprising times and the way he looked with his tie loose and the way he’d fiddled with the garbage disposal in the sink at one point when Steve came in to talk to him in the Tower and the way he’d elbowed Steve in the side at the last Avengers briefing and whispered something about Star Wars in Steve’s ear and Steve had whispered back _I understood that reference_ , and Tony had, had _smiled_ , and Steve had forgotten how to breathe, like asthma all over again.

He welcomed it when Brock grabbed his shirt by the collar and pulled him into a bruising, biting kiss, pushing his hands back into Steve’s hair and fisting them there, making him shiver at the way the touch felt against his scalp, against the strands, the way his mouth felt on his, hot and wet, biting at his bottom lip, tongue against his own.  His hands were busy at Steve’s belt as he kissed him, and Steve could feel it as it came open, as he unbuttoned and unzipped his fly and his pants went loose at his hips and crotch.

“Yes, sir,” he said against Brock’s hot mouth, mouth rubbing wet through his stubble, because he knew it would make him hot, would make him happy.  “Just you, I understand, sir.”

“You better,” Brock grunted, his hand rubbing against Steve’s erection through his briefs, all rough knuckles and rougher palm, until Steve could feel himself leaking, feel his sensitive tip catching on the fabric and rubbing until it hurt, until it burned, and Brock just rubbed him harder.

“You can always make me,” Steve murmured, catching Brock’s mouth with his again, biting down on his bottom lip, curling one hand in his belt loops and the other around his shoulders.

“Oh, I’m gonna,” Brock growled, almost grunting, “trust me, you big needy slut,” and then he smacked Steve’s cock so hard, between his legs, with the back of his hand, his knuckles, that Steve felt tears come to his eyes as the shock went through him, the pain starting a moment later, as he doubled over, gasping.

Brock tripped him, and Steve thought of at least five ways to catch himself, even through the agony—Brock’s shoulder, his belt, his shirt, he could bring him down under him—and let himself go down hard on his knees, let himself be pushed into the floor.  He let Brock straddle him and drag off his jacket, rocking his own hard-on into Steve’s rear, along the seat of his pants, against his crack, pushing his cheeks apart with that hot, heavy bulge, even as he undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, rubbing Steve’s cheek roughly against his wooden floor as he pulled it up from Steve’s slacks in rough fistfuls.

When he got it undone, he dragged it off, too, Steve’s undershirt, next, leaving him there bare-chested in the air of his apartment, feeling it prickle over his cold sweat, along the peaked hard pebbles of his nipples, and then Steve felt him buckling the belt around his wrists and whatever it was inside him that needed that, it relaxed, it went soft and sweet inside him again, he felt it unspooling inside his head, in his chest.  He moaned, rocked his hips forward before he knew what he was doing.  His cock throbbed, hurting so badly still, throbbing, a solid mass of agony between his legs, hot and tender and stinging with blood, like a massive bruise, but he didn’t even care, even as his hardening length made it hurt worse.  He gasped helplessly against the floor, and Brock grabbed his hair, dragged his face along it.  “Clean it up,” Brock gasped out, breathless and hot, “mouth better than a damn hoover.”

Oh, he meant—he meant with—the floor—Steve’s cock throbbed, a tight clench of humiliation in his gut unspooling into heat that prickled all over his body.  He opened his mouth, a little hesitantly, and started to lick at it.  It tasted like spilled beer and dirt that was gritty all over his tongue, and it was horribly unsanitary, wasn’t it, but he was a super soldier, wasn’t he?  And Brock knew that.  It wasn’t like he was going to get anything.  It wasn’t like he even could.  Steve opened his mouth wide, dragged the side of it along the floor, rubbed his tongue against a sticky spot.

His mouth was stinging and painful and gritty by the time Brock let him up.  He took another swig of his beer bottle, then pushed the butt of it into Steve’s cheek, looking at his glassy eyes, the unsteady way he breathed.  “Mouth’s too dirty to stick my dick in now,” he said, and Steve felt his eyes sting despite himself, even though it was stupid, even though he knew the floor had been dirty.  It was just—he wanted to serve, he _liked_ serving, and he’d thought—maybe he could impress Brock this time, maybe he’d learned how to give him a better blowjob—but that wasn’t what Brock wanted from his dirty mouth, of course not.  He would have wiped off his mouth, if he could, almost moved to do it, but then he felt the belt around his wrists, and of course he could have broken it, but—but he didn’t.  He didn’t want to.  He just stood there with his stinging eyes wide and his mouth dirty and hanging open and let Brock run the cool glass of the beer bottle along his hot, swollen bottom lip.

“You’re always a picture like this, Rogers,” Brock said almost fondly.  “So desperate, princess.”

Steve sucked on his bottom lip, cast his eyes down, somehow made bashful by being called that.  Princess.

“Strip down for me,” Brock said, idly, and tossed back the rest of his beer as Steve hopped to.  His hands fumbled on his boots, with his slacks already sliding down, and Brock laughed, laughed again as his dick sprang free, sore and hard, and sent a spatter of precome up into Steve’s face.  “Filthy,” Brock said, and grabbed Steve by the back of his neck, kissed his forehead, and shoved him toward the bed.

It was one of Brock’s favorite things, to have Steve on his knees in his bed, face down and rear end up, naked, as he idly toyed with his own belt and just watched him.  This time he made Steve spread his cheeks apart, tease at his own hole with a dry finger, and Steve just—just sucked in his breath and _did it_.

Brock’s belt snapped across his rump, across his hand, a moment later, and the pain of it bloomed in Steve’s palm, up his wrist, over his rear.  He heard himself gasp.

“C’mon, princess, don’t be a pussy, I didn’t tell you to stop,” Brock said, and so Steve kept working his finger in deeper, shutting his eyes against the dry burn, sucking grit off his lips and tongue, even as Brock started to beat him with his belt in earnest.  The pain built, grew bright and brighter, stinging and hot, throbbing all through his hand, up and down his wrist, across his rear cheeks.  When Brock finally told him he could stop, opened the belt, Steve dropped his hand, almost in shock at how badly it was throbbing, how little it wanted to hold him up.  He curled his fingers into the covers.

Brock started by running his rough hands over Steve’s throbbing rear, squeezing and digging in his fingers, his thumbs.  He tugged him open, spit on Steve’s hole, and Steve’s cheeks went hot with shame.  He fingered him roughly, grunting the whole time, until Steve felt slick and open with lube, muttering something hot and humiliating about Steve’s—Steve’s pussy.  Steve hadn’t _exactly_ known what that meant until Brock had explained to him in exhaustive detail one night, after he’d fucked Steve twice and gotten four fingers up into his hole, and was using his hold to make Steve jerk and jump on all fours, laughing at him and calling his hot little cockpuppet, his slutty hand-sleeve, his loose pussy, because that’s what he was, Brock had said, a hole, a gaping, hungry hole—and Steve had come, when Brock teased a finger along his prostate and slapped at his cock and called him a hole.  His face burned.  He wondered again why he was like this.  How could he like this, to be demeaned, to be slapped, to be spat on, to be— 

He’d always been like this, he knew.  When he’d seen _The Sheik_ , he’d imagined being in Agnes Ayres’ place.  When he’d watched _Captain Blood_ , he’d imagined being at the mercy of the pirates and his belly had gone tight with want.  But this—he hadn’t thought anyone would be, would be _interested_.  Not like this.  Not now.  Not with him.  And—and when Brock called him those things—part of Steve burned with shame, even while his cock sat up and took notice, even as he gasped and arched his back and ground down onto Brock’s dick or his fingers, desperate for more, and he wasn’t sure—wasn’t sure which one was the real him.

Brock’s breaths were growing uneven as he tugged Steve’s hole open roughly, ignoring his prostate, as he grunted about Steve’s hungry pussy, and Steve closed his eyes and breathed out hard.  That meant there wasn’t going to be much stimulation for him tonight.  That was okay.  That was fine with him.  He didn’t want to—to think about Tony when he came, and he was afraid if he was allowed too much pleasure, he just might.  And that wouldn’t be—fair.  That wouldn’t be right.  It was just that—he’d just seen Tony before he came there, and if he shut his eyes, he could still smell a touch of his cologne, the scent of rose and sandalwood and something spicy and intoxicating, even over the grit of the floor and the smell of beer.

But that was _wrong_ , and it made Steve almost eager for the next round, the next time Brock slapped his ass or his thighs and called him a—a cunt, because it felt like he deserved it for thinking about Tony like that, without his consent, when he’d never want it.  God, if Tony could see him like this, he’d probably be _disgusted_ , and even as misery curled in Steve’s stomach at the thought, it was making him even harder, and God, what was wrong with him—

Brock pulled his fingers out of Steve and slapped him hard, over his loosened, wet, slickened up hole, and laughed and called it his sloppy cunt, spanking him hard, and Steve welcomed it, welcomed him making him raw and hot and painful and tender, even as he shoved in, hard and thick and long, because it pulled his thoughts back to the present, to _reality_ , with a vengeance, even as it made something inside him go soft and hot all over again, his mind relax into that strange slow, hot space it got when he was like this.

Brock choked him while he fucked him, looped his belt around Steve’s neck and pulled it tight, and Steve cried out and nearly came each time, but never got quite close enough.  “God, you can’t be quiet, can you,” Brock said after the third time, “Just can’t quite do it, you needy piece of ass.”  Steve had no breath—or words, really—to respond.  Finally Brock dropped him, let his head fall back loosely into the bed, and concentrated on fucking him, and Steve fisted his hands in the bed and let himself be fucked. 

Afterward, when Brock pulled out, he was still groaning and shivering, his cock sore but burning with need, even when Brock cruelly flicked the tip, his sensitive cockhead, and made him gasp and groan and almost sob.  He was so wet, he was leaking, and he knew Brock’s rough fingers came away smeared with it.

“So sloppy,” Brock’s voice came, replete with satisfaction, and Steve buried his face against his arm and gasped.  “So damn wet for me.”  Fingers tracing along his sore rear, along his crack, over his sticky hole, nudging inside and pulling until Steve gave a heaving breath that made his chest burn like he’d run a whole marathon in just the amount of time Brock had spent fucking him.  “Mmm, I bet you want more,” Brock said.  “Bet you want that slutty hole filled.  Bet you wanna come.”

“Wh-whatever you want, sir,” Steve managed to slur out, wet against his forearm, and there was silence for a moment.

Brock’s rough fingers pinched his sore, stinging buttock a moment later, and Steve quieted his gasp.  “Sweet, sweet sub,” he muttered.  “You’d make some soft asshole the sweetest service sub on the planet.  Well.  Anyway, sweet little sub.  Service slut.”  Another rough, almost cruel little rub into Steve’s soft hole, where he was wet and messy with spunk, deeper, against that spot that always felt so good, that made Steve swallow back a cry and clutch harder at the coverlet.  “Got to fill up this,” he gave a harsh tug, “needy,” another tug, “sloppy,” another, until Steve bit down on his hand, “hole.”

And then his fingers were out of him, and there was something cool and—and smooth and _hard_ against his rim, and oh, God, it was his beer bottle, the base, the bigger side, and oh, God, he was going to fuck him with a _bottle_ —

He pushed and pushed and even with Steve’s softened hole, thrust-open wide, there was a tight, burning stretch, but he blew out a breath and made himself relax, relaxed his muscles one by one, making them go loose, blossom open and let it in, and then it was slipping inside, easy as anything, and Brock was laughing, fucking it back and forth, in and out, and Steve’s eyes burned, he went molten with humiliation, because it felt _good_.  Brock slapped his rear and he clenched down on the cool glass and a little beer slopped out and ran down his thighs, and oh—Steve pressed his eyes against the muscle of his arm and gasped for breath.  He didn’t know if he hated it or if he was turned on, he didn’t know—much of anything at all.

And then it was pressing against his sweet spot, and Brock _turned it_ and pushed in, and oh, God, it was so _good_ , that slick hard surface, cool against his hot insides but quickly growing warm from him, the pressure, the force of it, the way it skated along inside him—

Brock made him come on it, then sighed, tugged it out of him, thumbed him open, pulling him wide on his thumb, spit inside of him again and rubbed it in, then slid into him, his cock still half soft, but Steve was loose enough now to take it in anyway, hold it inside him—oh God, his thumb was still there, inside him, holding him open, too, oh, God—and fucked him slowly, a long time, until he got hard, spilled, and came.

He tugged Steve down beside him, like that.  “Good job,” he muttered, and Steve felt warm, because he’d said he was _good_ , he’d done a _good job_ , that was _amazing_ , that made him feel _so good_ , made everything in him light up with pleasure, at _good good good good_ —“Good little fucksleeve, ain’tcha?”  His hand came up, rubbed loosely over Steve’s face, thumb tugging at his lips, and then fell to his belly.  He tugged the blankets up over them when Steve was still blinking, trying to process what had happened.  And with that, he was asleep, still in Steve’s body.

Steve didn’t mind.  He didn’t need sleep as much as most people, but that was okay.  He could just lie here, in Brock’s bed.  That was nice.  Brock didn’t always want him around after he came.  Lying in bed was nice.  And he liked his softening cock inside him, even feeling his come slipping out around it, hot and wet and filthy—it was so hot—but just the holding it with his body, too.  Holding him inside.  That was good.  At least he was a good fucksleeve.  He was good at holding Brock’s cock inside him.  He could clench down, keep him in even when he was soft.

Steve wasn’t thinking straight, he was feeling warm and soft, getting to hold him like that, when he linked their fingers, curled his own inwards against his stomach, and let his mind drift.

When he woke up, he felt very, very cold.  He was shivering.  Brock wasn’t inside him anymore, and his hole felt wet and sticky.  Messy.  He dragged his knees up toward his stomach before he opened his eyes, realized Brock had tugged the blankets back off him.

“Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty,” Brock said, and laughed.  His cock was out, but his pants were on, and his undershirt, a dramatic contrast to Steve’s nudity.  “You look like something, that’s for sure, princess.”

Steve bit his lip and sat up, reached back and fingered loosely at his wet, sticky hole.  It was slightly tender.  More than a little.  Oh, ow.  A little sore, maybe.

“Mind if I use your shower?” he asked, and the words came out of him slower, softer than he’d been expecting.  His mind still felt soft, dazed and hazy and permeable.

“Shower?  Maybe later,” Brock said, grinning at him.  He tucked his dick away, zipped himself up, and Steve felt very aware of the cock lying loose and limp against his own thigh.  “Strip the bed and put the sheets in the wash, first.”

Steve nodded, looked around for his clothes.  Brock tsked at him.

“Nuh-uh,” he said.  “None of that.  Do it naked, All-American.”

Steve bit his lip.  His hole still felt wet, smeared against his fingers.  Come would drip out of him even if he clenched, he was sure.  He took a breath, face burning, and clenched his hole shut, stood up.  Sure enough, he felt a few droplets leak out, slip down his thighs.  Brock watched, and he could feel his eyes on him as he bent over, pulling off the soiled blankets, the sheets.  He wiped the come off his leg with one hand as he started for the laundry, and he could hear Brock laughing at him.

At least he’d learned how to operate a modern laundry machine already, and it didn’t take him long.  Steve made Brock his eggs and bacon, swiping idly at the oil that burned his bare chest, just under one nipple, then brushed his teeth and came back to take his place under the table and sucked Brock off once more before he stood up, pressed a kiss into his mouth.  Brock sighed, arched up into it, squeezed at Steve’s sore backside.  “Good little housewife,” he said, and Steve felt his lips stretch into a smile.

“I don’t know about that,” he said.  “I’m no good at any of this domesticity stuff.  But I can follow orders.”

“That you can,” Brock said, then stopped, hesitated.  “You know, Rogers,” he said.  “I wouldn’t mind—keeping you around a while.”

Something twisted up tight and uncertain in Steve’s chest, in his belly.  “Yeah?” he said, and it came out quieter than he’d meant it to.  “You mean that?”

“Sure,” Brock said, and bit at his bottom lip.  “You know how to make my eggs just right.  Now get in that shower.  You messy boy.”

Steve grinned at him, grateful for the consideration, and grabbed a piece of bacon on his way past.  He was loopy and a little faint from hunger, and surely Brock wouldn’t begrudge him that much.

“You’ll pay for that, Rogers!” Brock called out after him, anyway.

“I can take it,” Steve said, and finished the bacon before he stepped into the shower.

The soft glow of euphoria—of being used hard and put away wet, of Brock saying he wanted him on a—on a what, more permanent basis?  Of being _good_ —lasted until Steve got back to his own place, and then, as the door closed behind him, he sagged back against it, closed his eyes.

What was he _doing_?  What was he thinking?  Brock was his subordinate, he couldn’t—couldn’t have a relationship with him.  Not a real one.  That was wrong.  That was—sure, SHIELD didn’t seem to have any rules against fraternization, and plenty of agents, well, they . . . fraternized.  But STRIKE was a front line military group.  It was like sleeping with Dum Dum would have been, it was—wasn't _right_ —

Steve stumbled over to his table, pulled out his chair, and slumped into it, even though it sent a jolt of pain up from his still tender rear.  He sank his head into his hands.

He stayed there as the sun came up, even as his stomach growled and gnawed insistently.  He put his head down on his arms.  He took a breath.  He should eat, he thought distantly.  He felt so cold, so cold and so alone and so—so worthless.  He wasn’t any good, not for anyone, he wasn't . . . good, he was terrible, a terrible boyfriend, a terrible . . . fuck, a—he should have done more.  The inside of his mouth still felt gritty.  He was so cold.  He shivered.  Maybe he should take another shower, he thought, but he found himself just running his fingertips over the grain of the wood of his table.  There was a scored mark there, a flaw.  Was that his fault?  Had he put that there?  Jesus Christ, he couldn’t even take care of his own goddamn things, the things SHIELD had entrusted him with, one of the few damn things he had in this time.  Why couldn't he even take care of a goddamn table?  His fingers went around and around, over the mark.

That was when the Avengers alert went off.


End file.
